


Three Days

by imperfectkreis



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9362138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: Noctis and Prompto get three days together, after ten years. Each one is a gift.(Endgame spoilers)





	1. First.

Prompto sees the flash of light, brilliant, and unheard of in the last ten years of darkness, coming from the direction of Galdin Quay. 

With daemons nipping at his heels, there’s no time to stop, to stumble. Or consider what the light means. He has to keep running towards the lamps of Hammerhead. His hand stays wrapped around the textured grip of the pistol latched to his hip. Years ago, he learned to run with the firearm strapped to his side, bouncing against his outer thigh. The extra weight is familiar. He's been using this gun longer than the magicked ones that Noct let him conjure, what now feels like a lifetime ago.

Three sets of clawed feet scamper after him, scratching against the hard-packed, dry earth. As he runs, sap-sticky branches snag in his jeans, breaking as he thunders forward. The shorter daemons slow down as they hit the thicket, becoming tangled in the underbrush. Prompto dashes on ahead.

The diversion buys him enough time to slow down half a step. He tries to catch his breath, readying for the next sprint.

Just when Prompto can see the outline of Hammerhead, a glowing oasis in the desert void, he turns on his heels, snatching his gun from the hoister and turning on the daemons that tailed him for the last quarter mile. Leveling his breathing the best he can, he pulls the trigger, hitting the first foul, long-limbed scavenger between black eyes. Its skull splits in two, clattering audibly against the ground on impact.

It screams as it dies, blood and brain matter soiling the earth, seeping into the drought parched ground. Prompto doesn't have time to think about it. How much of their food is tainted now with the moisture of dead bodies. Human and daemon and the permutations in between. 

He still has to deal with the remaining daemons. But he’s lost the element of surprise. Time for a new tactic.

His second shot catches the next daemon in the shoulder, crippling its front left limb. Prompto rolls to one side. Narrowly missing a slashing claw. The daemon shrieks in frustration, as it swipes against nothing. Prompto can smell the sour sickness of its blood, oozing from the open wound.

Dashing towards the nearest boulder, Prompto scrambles up the side to get the higher ground. The third, unharmed, daemon lunges, trying to keep pursuit. It sinks its talons into Prompto’s boot, before he can kick it in the face, unloading five clean shots into the bulkiest part of the monster’s narrow torso. Lifelessly, it hits the floor.

The injured daemon is the only one that remains, springing towards Prompto’s position atop the rock. Prompto tries to jump, to dodge, but the daemon scrapes against his knees, knocking them both back to the ground. His jeans rip, thick, red blood rising from the gash. He shouts in pain before he can stop himself. Excess noise will only rouse more monsters.

Prompto twists to get away. If he ends up underneath the daemon, he’s fucked. As small as they appear, Prompto knows from experience, they're heavy. Once he manages to kick free, he reloads his pistol, taking off at a run again. With the injured limb, the daemon can't follow at pace. Blood starts soaking into Prompto’s socks. He’s just got to blot out the pain for now. Rely on adrenaline and survival instinct. 

It hurts like fuck, but dying is worse.

Once the clip snaps into place on his pistol, Prompto spins back around, taking aim where he still hears the daemon howling its lament. One shot, two, three. The bullets screech in the endless night. When the screaming stops, Prompto drops his shoulders, holstering his gun. He's too far from the daemon to watch it die. Besides, he knows what it looks like.

Prompto trots towards the lights of Hammerhead, reaching into his bag for a potion. That's enough, for one cycle.

\--

Talcott has gone looking, Cindy says. He took the truck, about an hour ago, heading out towards the Quay.

Prompto doesn't let himself hope.

He believes Noctis is coming back. Absolutely. In ten years, he's never doubted, never wavered in his belief. Prompto doesn't...know about the others. They're rarely together, anymore. They’ve split up across the continent, holding down what outposts they can. But he knows, absolutely, that Noctis is coming back. And he will bring the sun. If asked, Prompto can't say exactly why he knows this, or how. But it's true, it has to be.

What Prompto doesn't know, is when that time will come. He's stopped counting the days. Stopped wishing that it will be in his lifetime. It could be today, or tomorrow, or a year from now, another ten, another hundred. It doesn't matter. Noctis is coming back. He's going to fulfil his destiny.

Just, it might not be with Prompto at his side.

That's...okay, though. Because it will happen. One day, humans will see the sun again. Maybe not Gladio and Ignis and Iris, Cor and Aranea. Cindy. Maybe they don't live to see the sun again. But someone will.

Prompto finishes off his beer, shoveling down half his noodles and leaving the other half to grow soggy and cold, a thin film of oil clings to the surface, sticking to the edges of the bowl. He should go to bed. At least for a couple of hours. He aches all over, the potion he downed earlier isn't enough to keep him going for another cycle. Besides, his reaction times were too slow on the last batch of daemons he dispatched.

Cindy grabs her order from the counter, sliding in across from Prompto. Taking her cola between both hands, she rubs the bottle until it warms up a little. She says it hurts her teeth when it's too cold. Something about the sweetness. But she doesn't like it room temperature either.

Prompto rests his head in folded arms, watching as she eats. Twirling the still-hot noodles around her chopsticks, she drips gravy on the table. She's always been a messy eater. At least as long as Prompto has started living out of Hammerhead. It's one of the things Prompto likes about her. He's never been able to articulate the core reason why he likes that she's a messy eater. He just does.

“Thinking about reconsidering my proposal?” Prompto jokes. He asks her at least once a week if she’ll finally marry him. Every time she says no. But she also never gets mad about his asking.

They both know it won't work. That's the reason Prompto asks her, and not someone else. At least, this way, it looks like he's trying. Works to keep other people off his back. Cindy might even like it, because it keeps other guys from sniffing around too. They think Prompto might throw a fit, if they get to close. In a way, they've mutually ensured their isolation.

Cindy smiles, but doesn't answer his question, “You look beat, hon.”

Prompto grunts into his arms, “Long cycle.”

Relaxing back into the booth, Cindy’s legs knock against his under the table. “I just started my cycle. You could sleep in my bedroom, if you want the privacy?”

Prompto already has a key to her room, latched onto the ring on his belt. But he never uses it, unless she tells him it's okay first. Their cycles don't usually line up, but he still doesn't want to disturb her. Otherwise, he sleeps in the barracks they've built around back of the service station. Really, it's just six cots in a tin shed. But it's mostly quiet, and it's safe. The camper is still there too. But it's seen better days, and they try to leave it available for travelers passing through.

“Yeah, I might.”

They both hear when Talcott’s truck pulls through the gate, the engine switching off after he's got it parked. Prompto lifts his head. It's not his fault if his heart starts to race. But he can at least keep himself from jumping up and running to the kid. Fuck, he's not a kid anymore…

Talcott comes into the diner alone, the brim of his hat pulled low over his forehead and hands shoved in his pockets. As he orders, he doesn't even glance in Prompto’s direction. A false lead again.

Prompto is about ready to slip away when Talcott nudges him to slide closer to the window. Prompto gives in, moving over so Talcott can sit down. His bowl is mostly broth and peas, with only a couple sad noodles sinking to the bottom. When he stirs the bowl, they rise temporarily to the top.

“I'm going out again in an hour,” Talcott explains. “I think he's out there. I think this was it. I just...missed him. Or maybe he's staying off the roads. I'll find him, though,” he blows on his soup, keeping his eyes downcast.

Prompto doesn't correct him, just huffing “Okay,” once Talcott stops talking. The kid gets like this, sometimes. Sullen in his hopefulness. 

Maybe the light was just a daemon, or something. Or some hunter trying to rig up the lights down at the Quay with a makeshift generator. It was only an explosion, or something, that they saw.

He shoves his bowl of cold noodles towards Talcott. He can at least mix them in with the hot broth and manage a decent meal.

\--

By the time Prompto makes it to bed, he's starving again. But in the sort of abject way that the diner food won't fill. Unlocking Cindy’s door, the smell of grease mixes in with the light citrus of her perfume. She probably doesn't even notice herself.

Once he strips, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, he falls face first into the pillow, barely managing to tug the sheets up around his hips. He already set an alarm on his phone on the way over from the diner, waving goodbye to Talcott as he climbed back into his truck.

It's okay that it won't be today. Or tomorrow. Next week or year. Noctis will find his way back, and so will the light. It's destiny, right? And it was, is, Prompto’s job to stand at Noct’s side. That's the promise he made, all those years ago.

Curling up, Prompto tucks his head towards his chest, pulls his knees towards his stomach. The sheets start to warm with his body heat and his breathing. He made a promise. He's going to fulfil it.

\--

Cindy pounds on her own bedroom door, before throwing it open, telling Prompto to come quick. Prompto groans, rolling onto his other side to meet Cindy’s smiling face. She claps her hands together, stressing that he should hurry.

“Why?”

“Your prince has come,” she beams.

No.

Cindy wouldn't joke about that. She knows Prompto too well. Joking about this would be too cruel.

Falling out of bed, Prompto grabs his jeans, pulling them up onto his hips. They're caked in blood, where the daemon ripped them open, but he's not sure he has another clean pair. He doesn't bother with his belt, tugging on his shirt as he rushes past Cindy. Fuck shoes.

FUCK SHOES.

Dashing out of the garage, his heart pounds inside his chest, threatening to break his ribs. He can almost feel the bones pull apart, making room for the swelling of his lungs as he struggles for air.

Noct. Noct is here. He's here. Here.

His bare feet scrape against the pavement as he breaks into a run, crashing towards Talcott’s truck. There's a man standing with Talcott, dressed all in black, dark hair cascading over his forehead, into his eyes.

But Prompto doesn't even need to see his face. All he needs to witness is Noct’s posture, the way he puts his hand on his hip, tilts his head. Every movement gives his friend, his best friend, away. It's him, it's really him. And Prompto is sobbing before he can even reach out and touch him.

That's okay. Prompto is already sure this is real.

“Noct!”

Noctis turns, his eyebrows raising before he starts running too. But they're too close, and neither one of them stops. They crash into each other, Prompto going at full speed and Noctis only just starting his gait. They topple to the ground, Noct hitting the pavement hard.

Tears sting at the corners of Prompto’s eyes. He's so deliriously happy. He can't even compose himself. At least the parking lot is mostly empty. And who’s Talcott going to tell? Noct throws his arms around Prompto’s shoulders, dragging them both back down together and tucking his head in at Prompto’s neck.

“Ten years, huh?” Noctis chokes. He's crying too.

“Went by like nothing,” Prompto jokes.

“Yeah,” Noct’s coarse stubble cuts against Prompto’s neck. Ten years, and he still can't grow a full beard. Back when they were in high school, they managed twelve days without shaving, before Ignis scolded Noctis for looking unkempt. Noct’s beard was just as patchy then, though it's thicker now, in some places. Not like Prompto can manage much better.

They probably should get up off the ground, but Prompto can't imagine anywhere else he wants to be. He knows, he knows okay, that there is still a long road ahead of them. Noct’s return is only the beginning. But in this moment, he wishes they could throw it all away.

“I've radioed Gladio and Ignis,” Talcott offers, still standing awkwardly by their side. Prompto and Noct manage to at least sit up on the pavement, but Prompto still can't find the motivation to stand. As if this moment will be broken as soon as they're on their feet.

Noctis sits cross-legged looking up at Talcott, “Awesome, thanks. Do you know how long?”

“Few hours? Tops. Both of them have access to vehicles with good lights. So, shouldn't be long.”

Prompto realizes that Noct is still holding his hand. They thread their fingers together, Prompto squeezing down tight. Noct’s hands are soft. Last time they touched each other, in Zegnautus Keep, Noct’s hands had been calloused. They’d spent months fighting for survival, for progress, making their hands rough. Prompto’s palms are still tough, but Noct’s are soft.

While Noct and Talcott talk, Prompto studies his friend’s face. 

Noct has aged, just as Prompto has. There are fine lines around his eyes, a certain broadness to his jaw that wasn't so apparent when they were twenty. But otherwise, he looks the same. He's still Noctis.

“Hey, Prompto,” Noct squeezes back. “We, uh, have some time, before they get here.”

“Oh,” Talcott reaches into his pocket, “I got you the keys for the camper. It's a bit beat down. But it will give you guys some privacy.”

Reading up, Noct takes the keys from Talcott’s hand. This couldn't last forever. They need to get to work.

Prompto follows Noctis to the camper and, yeah, they do have a lot to talk about. Both after the other guys get to Hammerhead...and probably before they arrive too. Ten years is a long time, but it's not like Prompto could forget. Or Noct could either. Right?

Once they're inside the cramped little kitchen, Noct jokes, “I lost my phone, but I guess the King’s Knight servers aren't up anymore, anyway?”

“Noct?”

Noctis won't look at him, now that they're alone. And shit. Maybe Prompto is the one who made this weird for both of them. Maybe Noctis wants to forget what happened in the Keep dormitories, after the truth was laid bare. Their confessions, sweet words and sweeter mouths, Prompto can't forget what happened ten years ago. But that doesn't mean Noct doesn't want to make it all go away.

Noctis picks up one of the coffee cups, stacked in the dish rack next to the sink. He holds it in both hands, fidgeting with the delicate curve of the porcelain handle. “How have you been?”

Prompto hates it, really hates it, how impersonal Noct’s voice sounds, dry and distant.

“It's been dark, since you've been gone.”

Noct breathes deeply, “I know. Talcott told me.” Smiling, he continues, “he got so big.”

“I know man,” Prompto blurts, “he got taller than me at like, sixteen. It's so unfair!”

Noctis laughs, sounding a little more like himself.

“I knew you'd come back,” Prompto offers, just above a whisper. They're already standing close, the walls of the RV keeping them from putting distance between them. Noct puts the cup back down on the counter. “I knew you'd come and save everyone...save me.”

“Prompto…” Noct swallows hard, his apple bobbing in his throat, “is there someone...there should be someone, right? I've been gone...a long time. And we never...”

Oh. 

Yeah, maybe Noctis would think that. Prompto doesn't know where Noct has been, but Noctis knows that Prompto has been here, in this world where time passes, but the sun never rises. He's been here for ten years, without Noct. It would have made sense, for Prompto to try and move on. Fuck, he did try and move on. It just...didn't work. Even though he and Noctis barely got started, Prompto just couldn't let go.

“There's no one,” Prompto says, curling his hand around Noct’s hip. “There’s no one.”

Noct tips his head forward, sealing their lips together. The taste is just the same, watery and slightly sugar sweet. As if Prompto could forget. He opens his mouth letting Noctis tease inside. But the contact is fleetingly brief, Noctis pulling away too soon. But he drags his hand along Prompto’s side, one finger dipping into the waistband of his jeans, already falling low on Prompto’s hips.

“They're too big,” Noct mumbles.

“Forgot my belt. I was sort of in a hurry,” Prompto admits.

They end up laying down in one of the bunks, keeping their bodies tucked against each other. Like they used to, when they'd unzip their sleeping bags so they could curl together in the night. Prompto’s head under Noct’s chin; Prompto’s arm around Noct’s waist. When Gladio would find them in the morning, he'd grumble about proper insulation.

Prompto slides his hand under the back of Noct’s shirt, skirting his fingers along the lower vertebrae. It won't be long now, until the others arrive. Prompto thought he'd be too wound up from Noctis being here to ever sleep again. But in their comfortable familiarity, he starts to feel drowsy. 

“Prompto.”

They've left the lights on inside the RV. The fluorescents make Noct’s skin look white-gold. They're all paler now, the tan scrubbed from their skin by endless night. Prompto thinks his freckles have started to fade too. But maybe that's all in his head.

“Yeah?”

“You know what happens, right? When we go to Insomnia? When we face Ardyn?”

Not every detail, no. But since Noct started absorbing those ancestral arms, Prompto has suspected. Even before that, maybe, Prompto has known how this ends. When they would sit on the plush couch in Noct’s swank apartment in the capital, watching news stories about Noct’s dad and the Wall. And after that, every time Prompto would pull his gun, watch it materialize, drawing from Noct’s well of magic, the birthright of the Lucii, Prompto could feel it. The drain. 

“I'm supposed to stand by your side, Noct. I plan on keeping my promise.”

“I want to leave for Insomnia as soon as we’re supplied,” Noct explains, “so...if you...have goodbyes.”

They're not coming back from this. And that's okay.

“We’re good.”

“Yeah,” Noct tightens his arms around him.


	2. Second.

They're woken by Gladio slamming open the camper door, nearly wrenching the damn thing off its hinges. Prompto can't really fault him for long, not when Gladio is smiling so brightly, Ignis trotting in just behind.

It's been ten years since they've seen their friend too. Prompto isn't the only one who has missed Noct. It would be selfish to complain.

Still, it's torturous to have to try and pull away, for Noct and Prompto to shift out of the warmth of each other's arms to sit up on the cot. Noct rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to chase away the last remnants of sleep. Yawning wide, Prompto doesn't bother to cover his mouth, just slouching against Noct’s side for a second more.

But they've got to get up and out of bed. First thing on the itinerary is hugs all around. Which isn't so bad. It's been a couple of weeks since Prompto has last seen Ignis, and at least a month for Gladio. Gladio’s laugh is so loud and sincere, it shakes the whole camper.

The quarters are too tight to talk comfortably inside, so they all spill back out into the open air. Prompto clicks the flashlight hooked into his jacket on out of habit, even though Hammerhead is plenty bright without them.

Sitting around the long-silent radio, in the brittle, beat down patio chairs, takes Prompto right back to when he and Noct were twenty, full of cautious optimism and adrenaline. They crossed a continent, they crossed the sea, without ever really thinking about how vast their lives were.

“So where have you been?” Gladio finally asks, leaning over the grime-stained table top. He's careful not to rest too much of his weight on it, or else the plastic might start splintering.

Prompto hasn't even thought to ask, thinking that if Noct wants to talk about it, he will. But Gladio is so disarming in his open warmth, the question doesn't sound intrusive coming from him. And, truth is, Prompto wants to know.

Noct shakes his head, “It's...it's hard to describe. I had no idea, none, that it had been ten years for you guys…”

Wringing his hands in his lap, Prompto keeps his eyes averted. There's nothing to see, other than Noctis’ solemn face. He wonders if Noct’s going to tell the others too. About their fate. Or maybe, like Prompto, they already know.

“I spoke with Bahamut, I know I have his favor now...but...and,” he reaches towards his face, in a gesture Prompto recognizes. Even back in high school, Noct would always pull at the front of his hair when he got nervous, clenching down his fist and pulling. But this time, he stops short, dragging his hand away and dropping it back on the table. “I know what we need to do. We need supplies. And we need to make sure our weapons work.”

Prompto hadn't even thought to draw from Noct’s arsenal. Holding his left hand tight around his opposite wrist, he starts to pull. Though it's been years since he's used Noct’s magic reserve, manifesting his old pistol comes like second nature. Blue light sparks across his hand, like static running along his skin, the gun materializing in his palm, solid and cool when he grips down.

“That seems to work,” Prompto smiles, holding the gun up so the others can see.

Noct nods, “Good. I was able to pull from the arsenal myself before Talcott found me, but I wasn't sure it would still work for you guys. This is a relief.”

Prompto doesn't let his smile fade until Noct turns back to Gladio and Ignis. They'll need curatives, stimulants, food, water. If there are any new weapons to add to Noct’s reserves, they should take care of that too.

Shaking his hand, Prompto watches as the gun breaks apart, disintegrating into nothing. In the moment he was connected to Noct again, through his magic, Prompto felt comforted, at ease. But he knows it can't last forever.

“I want to try fighting together too,” Noct explains. “I don't think my skills have deteriorated, but I was outnumbered when I came back. At the Quay, I spent more time running than fighting.”

“A few encounters with daemons within reach of Hammerhead should suffice,” Ignis offers.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Noct agrees, “but, supplies, first.”

“Supplies,” Gladio knocks Noct on the shoulder, pulling him up out of his seat by the back of his coat so they can check out the shops. Prompto stays behind with Iggy, folding and unfolding his hands in his lap.

Iggy leans back in his chair. Prompto finds him as inscrutable as ever. And he's not as comfortable in Iggy’s company as he once was. A lot has happened. With Gladio, things aren't as bad, his natural charisma making up the gap that keeps growing larger, year by year. But Ignis has been more reserved from the start. And as close as he and Prompto may have been before, the years in between are hauntingly vast.

“We should go with them,” Ignis says, after a long minute of silence.

Prompto rests his head on his arms, folded across the table, “You go on ahead. I'll wait.” His leg bounces up against the underside of the table.

Part of him wants to spend every second with Noct that he can. He can feel the hourglass running out. But he knows he’ll only get in the way with shopping. And the other guys deserve Noct-time too. Prompto doesn't doubt that he's different than the others, but that doesn't make his relationship with with Noct more important than Gladio or Iggy.

He watches a Ignis walk away from him. Ignis’ posture is as rigid as ever.

A pair of headlights come around the bend, just outside of Hammerhead, but Prompto can't make out the outline of the car. He doesn't know if Cindy radioed anyone else that Noct was here, but he trusts her judgement about who to tell. Or else, it's just a group of hunters coming in for a resupply. 

Prompto watches as they're let in through the gate, recognizing almost immediately the man in the driver’s seat. 

He's glad, really, that Cor is here. Even if he's not coming with them to Insomnia, and Prompto assumes he's not. They can use any edge they can get. And, more than once, the Marshal has been that boon.

“Prom?” Cor pulls his jacket tight around his shoulders. It's starting to come apart at the shoulder seams. They've all been coming apart for a long time.

Prompto gives him a little wave, wincing slightly at the endearment. It's been...fuck...years now. But Prompto still blames himself. He's the reason it...didn't work.

“Noct and the others are grabbing some supplies,” Prompto has no delusion that Cor is here to see him. He's come because the King has returned.

Cor pulls out the chair across from Prompto, sitting down and spreading his fingers wide across the tops of his thighs, “Okay, I can wait. So, it's true then?” There's more gray in his hair now than the last time Prompto saw him, maybe three months ago? Even then, they didn't really talk, only crossing paths through an outpost in Duscae. He looks just as handsome, though. He always has.

“Yeah,” Prompto fidgets with his wristband. Cor is the only person, other than the guys, who knows. When Prompto told him, tugging down his cuff, Cor hadn't even been surprised, just threading his fingers in between Prompto’s and saying, ‘I know.’ Prompto never asked how. Now, it's not appropriate. 

“Everything is happening so fast,” Cor says, sitting back in his chair, eyes fixed on the diner.

“After a long nothing,” Prompto adds. He doesn't want this to be weird.

Cor smiles, finally turning his attention back to Prompto. “I'm glad.”

“Yeah,” now it's Prompto who can't keep focus, his ears feeling hot, despite the constant chill in the air. He swallows hard, “I'm just, I knew he would come back.”

“I know.”

Prompto can't help but reach across the table, brushing his fingertips over Cor’s knuckles. Then pulling away.

Noct walks out of the diner, Gladio and Iggy following behind. When they see Cor seated with Prompto, Gladio and Noct both wave. 

“Cor!” Noct calls, quickening his pace to greet him. “I didn't think you were coming.”

“Cindy got me on the radio. Come on, there's something you should see.”

All four of them follow Cor back to his car, one of the tiny coupes that were common before the darkness. Most of them haven't survived, their cheap alloy bodies unable to stand up to daemon attacks. The vehicles that have made it tend to be the heavier trucks and vans that are better at taking a beating. But Prompto doesn't doubt that the force of Cor’s personality alone keeps him safe on the roads.

Cor pops open his trunk, revealing a collection of weapons, swords, daggers, pistols, lances, everything they could possibly need.

“I wasn't sure what you would have retained. Or what your preferences are. Worst case scenario, sell them and use the gil for something better.”

Noct reaches up to clap Cor on the shoulder, with a sort of poised confidence that he didn't have before. “Thanks. Guys, take a look.”

Stepping aside, Noct and Cor leave the other three to sort through the contents of the trunk. Prompto waits his turn, before realizing that there's only actually one pistol on the trunk. Iggy passes it to him. 

It's just a new Enforcer, but it looks like it's been custom modified, with a thinner, longer grip that fits more firmly in Prompto’s hand. Flipping it over, Prompto inspects the work. It's all been carefully assembled. Most mods now are rush jobs out of necessity, but this is custom work.

Prompto looks a Cor, but neither of them say anything. Cor knew exactly what Prompto needed, and he's been waiting to give him this gun for some time.

Iggy passes Noct a set of daggers; Gladio comes up with a shield. “We’re doing okay on funds,” Gladio explains, “might as well distribute the rest to the hunters.”

“Of course,” Cor says, closing the trunk tight.

Noct holds out his hand for Prompto’s gun, ready to add it to the arsenal. Prompto turns the pistol in his hand, passing it grip first to Noct, watching closely as it vanishes from Noct’s hand.

“We should head out,” Noct says, stepping away from Cor’s car.

The abruptness takes Prompto back, “Wait! Already?” He thought they had more time. Well, he knew they didn't have much time, but he thought they had a little more. There is still so much he wants to say to Noct, to the other guys too, but.

“Yeah, I said before, right? I want to try a couple of battles against the daemons, before we head to Insomnia.”

Oh, right. The tightness in Prompto’s chest unwinds, letting him breathe easier. They won't be going far, at least, not yet. And yeah, it's totally reasonable, that Noct would want to make sure they can still fight together, know the pace of each other's steps, changes in reaction times. Prompto likes to think he's improved, since he was a fresh-faced city kid, who knew how to aim but not much else.

Prompto still doesn't know how or when or where he learned to shoot, other than the light guns at the arcade. He tries not to think too deeply about it.

Cor doesn't follow them out of Hammerhead. It's best they practice just with the team that is heading for the Crown City. Cor agrees. He doesn't fight to be included. He's always known that this is Noct’s battle to be won. The chosen King. Right?

And his Guard.

On foot, they don't attract much attention, even with their flashlights on. If they want to draw the daemons out, they'll have to make a ruckus. Prompto is used to that being his job.

Once they're far enough from Hammerhead, Prompto reaches out, drawing his gun from the arsenal. The others wait for him to take action first. He starts whistling. There aren't many chocobos left, but when he gets the chance, he still heads down to the ranch to see what's left of the flock, cooing and chirping at them, hoping that they understand his garbled attempts at their language. He does a pretty good impression, to start things off.

Prompto fires three shots in the air before yelling, “COME AND GET US!” at the top of his lungs. Feels good, feels really fucking good. Like he's yelling ‘fuck you’ to the whole damn planet. At the Astrals and men and everyone in between. Because at some point, this became his destiny. And, while he wouldn't trade it now, he’ll never, ever be convinced that this is what the gods had planned for him.

He's made himself into the man he is today. So Prompto screams again, drawing the daemons out.

When he looks into their crimson eyes, cutting through the darkness, he wonders how much of them is in his blood, and how much of him is in theirs.

He fires off another round of shots, hitting all four imps in quick succession before retreating to get behind Gladio and Noct’s line. They draw their broadswords, drafting a solid front to cut off the imps chasing after Prompto.

Behind him, Prompto hears the clash of steel on breaking bodies, slicing through the first wave of daemons. But there are always more. He scrambles to find higher ground, so he won't run the risk of hitting the others with his shots.

Once he gets into position, Prompto catches Ignis vaulting over the line on his polearm, smashing back down into the mass of writhing bodies. Noct casts away his broadsword, pulling a shorter, quicker blade instead.

Tight melee skirmishes like this are hell on Prompto, forcing him to find narrow openings to avoid opening fire on his friends. Gladio shifts from his sword to his shield, using it to bash into the pile. When he does, one of the imps goes flying, and Prompto is able to pick it off.

He lets out a cheer as the imp falls back to the ground, a lifeless husk, breaking up into purple-green goo. It smells sharply of thick decay, rotting bodies, with a sickly-sweet aftertaste, clinging in Prompto’s nostrils.

The second wave of daemons should be showing up any second now. They've made no effort to keep quiet. 

From the heavy sound of boots smashing against the desert floor, Prompto already knows it'll be an iron giant. Sure, great, skip right to the big boy. No problem. It’ll be his job to get the daemon into position, lure it towards the others so they don't have to expend energy trying to meet it.

He watches as the cloud of blue and red wafts around the giant’s massive form, muscles bulging under dark, shiny skin. Firing off six shots in the giant’s direction, Prompto shrieks in elation, throwing away his gun to pull his cross-saw instead. The daemon lumbers forward.

It's been ten years, yeah, but fighting with Noct again is coming easy.

Noct warps out of his line of sight, only to reappear, hanging from the old pylon overhead. Prompto dashes ahead, coming perilously close to the wide swing of Gladio’s sword, before hitting the dirt and skidding between the giant’s legs.

Warping again, Noct smashes into the daemon’s neck, digging his blade deep. Prompto gets on his feet behind the beast, grinding his saw into the soft, vulnerable tendon at the back of its ankle.

Noct flips down as soon as the giant tries to swat him away with a meaty hand, landing just a foot to Prompto’s right. Tossing the saw, Prompto pulls his pistol again, just as Ignis springs into the giant’s chest.

“See ya!” Prompto shouts, high-fiving Noct on his way out to get back to higher ground. But before he can leave, Noct grabs Prompto’s gun, giving the giant a shot between the shoulder blades, before tossing it back to Prompto.

“Don't miss me too much!” Noct summons daggers to go back to work on the gash Prompto’s saw left behind.

Prompto can't help but blow him a kiss before darting away.

\--

By the time they've finished up, Prompto is a sweaty, bloody mess. They all are. The group of them stagger back to Hammerhead, Prompto downing his second potion, while the wound across his shoulder, slicing around to his back, knits together. It wouldn't be so bad, but he's definitely been cut across the same area before, which just means more ugly scar tissue, too tough to break up with curatives.

Oh.

Right.

It won't matter.

He holds tight to the empty potion bottle. When they get Hammerhead, he’ll toss it in the trash.

“I guess we could all use a shower, then some grub,” Gladio hasn't stopped smiling since he got to Hammerhead. Prompto can't say he still knows Gladio well enough to tell if it's an act or not.

Noct nods, “Yeah, I'm starving.”

“I'm tired,” Prompto adds, though he hasn't been awake more than five hours.

“Some things never change,” Ignis grumbles.

\--

They're not going to get time alone. Not unless they make it. And, fuck, Prompto wants...he just needs an hour. Maybe less. So that he knows what Noct feels like against him, just this last time. 

“Um,” Prompto drops his fork into his bowl, letting it clatter against the ceramic. “I'm gonna, head back to the camper, I forgot,” he looks at Noct, hoping he’ll get the idea, “could you help?”

Gladio, that ass, starts laughing. But know what, forget him. Soon they're all gonna be...it doesn't matter. Prompto just needs the time alone with Noct. Even if nothing happens. He has to at least ask.

“Yeah,” Noct puts his fork down more gently, “we’ll be right back,” he pushes his bowl towards the center of the table.

And okay, maybe right after eating isn't the best time for this, because as they walk towards the camper, Prompto can feel his stomach doing summersaults, he's all tight everywhere, clenching his hands into fists, until he needs one to open the door. Noct slides in behind him, hand firm against the small of Prompto’s back and clicking the latch shut so it can't be opened from the outside.

“Prompto?”

Exhaling loudly, Prompto spins around to face his friend, his mouth falling open, “We don't have time.”

“We have time, now,” Noct corrects.

And that's all the encouragement Prompto needs, wrapping his arms around Noct’s waist and dragging him closer, pressing their lips together. Noct opens his mouth to meet Prompto’s, warm and wet and slick. “I want,” Prompto whines between kisses, that grow deeper on each exhale, “I want you, us. I want this.”

Noct nods, “Me too, okay, yeah,” he laughs, holding Prompto’s face between both hands and kissing him again.

Reaching for the hem of his shirt, Prompto pulls it up and over his head, throwing it in one corner of the camper. He can't help but notice Noct’s smile, “You look good.” He reaches out, trailing his finger along the scar that cuts from just below Prompto’s nipple, almost all the way to his navel. That was a ronin, out by the Vesperpool, he thinks. Hard to keep all of them straight.

Prompto rolls his eyes, “A little less scrawny, maybe,” he's thickened out a little, but he's still bird-built compared to most everyone else. He never got any taller. But neither did Noct, so at least they both have that going for them.

After that, they're both sort of clumsy, getting undressed and not paying much attention where they throw their clothes, until they're down to just boxers, a little too shy at first to shed the last layer between them. Prompto starts pulling Noct towards the cot in an attempt to finally get them vertical.

Before Noct left, they only had one chance to be together. Just hands and hurried kissing. This won't be much more than that. Prompto sort of wishes he could give Noct the world. When really, they've got to get on with giving the world back to everyone else.

Soon. But not right now.

“I can blow you?” Prompto offers, sliding his fingers against Noct’s stomach, dipping them just under the elastic of Noct’s underwear. He brushes his fingers over Noct’s pubic hair, but not far enough to touch his cock. Not yet. Their last layer of clothes does basically nothing to hide their arousal, straining against thin fabric.

Noct groans, tucking in his head against Prompto’s chest, “Yeah, okay, uh...well, you know...I haven't.”

Prompto smiles, trying not to laugh, “Dude, I know. You've been asleep in that crystal for ten years.” He bites his bottom lip, “I'll take care of you. Don't worry. Ah,” Prompto has to decide how they're going to do this, “Sit up, with your back against the wall, knees bent.” He slaps the outside of Noct’s thigh.

Noct listens, scooting up so he's sitting. Prompto pushes his legs apart so he can fit in between. Tugging at Noct’s underwear, he finishes stripping him, watching as Noct’s hard cock strains against his abdomen.

Prompto’s not going to pretend he's some sort of genius at giving head. But he at least has done this before. And Noct doesn't really have a frame of reference. So all he's gotta make sure of is that he doesn't fuck this up too bad.

Tipping forward, Prompto takes the head of Noct’s cock past his lips, licking briefly along the underside before sinking deeper down. Noct’s hands tangle in his hair, sharp, raspy breaths spilling from his mouth.

Prompto works him slowly, drawing back up, almost to the tip before sliding back down, keeping his teeth back and his mouth wet as he sucks. He lets saliva drip from the corners of his mouth. They can always change the sheets.

Noct lets go of his hair, scratching his short nails across Prompto’s shoulder blades instead, his thighs starting to twitch as he gets close. His fingers rasp over more old scars, the texture of their time apart.

Prompto wants to draw this out, but he wants to watch Noct come apart too. He wants to know what Noct looks like, in the moment of his release. And know that he's the only one who will ever see.

It's primal and possessive and Prompto feels almost ashamed for wanting Noct this badly, for wanting to swallow him down and keep him close.

When he knows they're both going to die.

There.

He can finally admit it.

He knows they're going to die. And Noct knows too.

But at least they have this.

Noct comes in short bursts, all the muscles in his abdomen tightening under the flat of Prompto’s palm. Prompto swallows thickly, though he’s never liked the taste of cum. When he pulls away, he gets the view he's always wanted, Noct boneless and vulnerable, his eyes fogged over with red, unfocused, and breath short.

“Prompto…”

He can't help but kiss Noct in that moment, pulling away just as quick, if only so he can look again.

“I want you to fuck me, Prompto,” Noct rasps.

Okay, okay. So Prompto wasn't expecting that. But it isn't as if Prompto hasn't thought of it. He's basically thought of everything he could do to Noct and Noct could do to him and things they could do together, at one point or another. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“We could, um.” The lights in the camper are way too bright for this. Perched between Noct’s legs, there's nowhere for Prompto to hide, “I could get you hard again. And you could do me, if you prefer?”

“We don't…”

“Have time, I know.” Prompto isn't opposed to Noct’s plan here, he just wants to make sure that Noct wants this. “Okay, okay you're sure? Because we don't have to.”

“I want to,” Noct says firmly. “You'll have to help me. But I want to.”

Prompto’s bag is stashed somewhere on the floor. He's not even a hundred percent sure he has lube in there, because it's been literal years since he's been with another person, and he doesn't have to use it if it's just him and his hand. But he thinks maybe he did get some within the last couple of months. Not for sex specifically. Fuck, his memory is starting to go. Some people think it's a side effect of the dark.

Rummaging around in his pack, he pulls out the bottle of lubricant. It's small, but more than halfway full. “You sure you're sure?” he asks again. They both need to be certain.

Noct rolls his eyes, “Yeah, I mean, I've only been looking forward to this for the last ten years.”

“You said it didn't feel like ten years!” They're both just stalling now. At least, Prompto is.

He shoves his boxers off his hips, kicking them somewhere on the floor. Positioned in between Noct’s bent knees, he strokes himself a couple of times first, before even really looking at the bottle. 

“You'll probably want to be on your back for this.”

Technically, Noct is already on his back, but still propped up against the camper wall. They both scoot so that Noct is flat on his back, knees still bracketed around Prompto’s slim hips. 

“Um,” Prompto leans over him, to grab the pillow out from under his head. “Lift your hips up,” he instructs, and Noct follows without question, letting Prompto shove the pillow under him to keep his hips elevated while they do this. That always felt better for Prompto, at least. 

Once he's got Noct comfortable, he pops open the cap on the lube. He's not careful enough with it, spilling out over his fingers, so, they're definitely going to have to change the sheets. Whoops.

Slowly, he eases his index finger past Noct’s rim. He gets sort of light-headed, almost giddy, because he mostly can't believe this is really real.

“Feels weird,” Noct admits, “but I don't want you to stop.”

“Yeah, okay,” Prompto pumps his finger in a couple more times before he thinks Noct can take a second.

They're both quiet after that. Prompto, at least, keeps listening to Noct, trying to figure out if what he's doing is good or bad and if Noct is just putting on a brave face. Once Noct stops tensing up so much, Prompto finally starts to smile.

He’s careful easing in, pulling at Noct’s knee with one hand to keep their bodies close. Warm and slick with lube, Noct feels way, way too good around the head of Prompto’s cock, just on the edge of too tight.

“Okay?” he asks.

Noct’s eyes are open, a ring of red just around the iris, “Yeah.” He rolls his hips just a little, lifting up off the pillow so Prompto sinks deeper.

“Fuck,” Prompto curses.

This isn’t going to last long. Prompto wraps one hand around the base of Noct’s cock, trying to coax him hard again. He keeps his thrusts shallow, slow. That’s about all he’s going to be able to take. Because it’s sort of, kind of, the sight of Noct under him that’s doing most of the work here. Not that he doesn't feel amazing too. Just Prompto is having trouble focusing on one thing at a time, so he keeps falling back to the way Noct parts his lips, the exact moment his eyes flutter closed.

Noct bats his hand away, wrapping his own fist around his cock and dragging slowly, “Just, I don’t know, touch me?” His eyes open again, the red band growing thicker, darker.

Prompto spreads his fingers wide across Noct’s chest instead, feeling as his heart races in time, how short his breaths are coming. They’re actually doing this.

But it’s not really about this either. Prompto has wanted it yeah, the tight squeeze of Noct around his cock. But he’s also wanted a life neither of them could ever have. This is just an approximation. What’s that word? Prompto can’t remember. Asymptotic. 

Prompto ends up with his elbows bracketed on either side of Noct’s head, sharing languid kisses as their hips meet. Noct curls his legs around Prompto’s waist, keeping them bound together.

He wishes he could last, that this could last, arresting this moment in time. But their bodies fit too well, he gets too lost in the sensation of being wanted, held, devoured. Spilling into Noct, Prompto tries to stay quiet, more for his own sake, than anything else.

Once they’re done, they curl up on the bed, sticky and their hair messy against the sheets. They’ll have to get up soon, change the linens, tell the others that they can move ahead with preparations.

Prompto draws circles with his finger against Noct’s chest, watching a faintly pink line appear when the friction gets too much.

Noct holds out his hand and Prompto can feel the static of his magic, drawing something out. It’s the ring, pitch black, finely detailed, with deep etchings across the surface. Prompto has seen it before. Noct was wearing it in the Keep.

“I have to put it on again,” Noct sighs.

“You don’t want to?” Prompto asks.

Noctis smiles, sliding the ring onto his finger, “Doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Of course it does,” Prompto leans back against Noct’s arm, “this is what you wanted. I’ve known you for a long time, man, and you want this.” He takes Noct’s hand between both of his, holding it in front of his face so he can get a good look at the Ring of the Lucii, Noct’s birthright. “You want to do the right thing.”

“Yeah,” Noct admits, “I do.”

“I do too.”


	3. Third.

Iris arrives just in time to see them off. She's grown her hair long, wearing it up in a high, loose bun. When it's down, it reaches almost to the middle of her back. Carrying that much hair around can't be practical, but she's refused to cut it for awhile.

Coming up on her toes, she throws her arms around Noct’s shoulders pulling him close. When she finally lets go, she wipes at her eyes, stammering about how happy she is that Noct came back. Like the rest of them, she always knew he would. They've never stopped believing in him.

Noct smiles at her, saying that he's heard that she's a daemon hunter now. She laughs, bold and bright, assuring him that she's the best.

“And she won't let me forget it,” Gladio scoffs.

“You never could beat my record,” she teases. Like her brother, she prefers swords. Though hers is in proportion to her smaller frame, it's still massive, latched across her back, just barely glancing against the ground when she walks.

They need to give her time alone with Gladio, before they leave. Ignis calls to Noct and Prompto, to help loading up the truck.

Noct’s plan is to drive out to the edges of Insomnia as soon as possible. They’ll make camp just outside the city, then make their way to the center, once they're good and rested.

Prompto knows there's no point in delaying the inevitable. Gladio getting the chance to say goodbye to Iris was the last thing they were waiting on.

There's not really much to load, just the camping gear. Once they’re done, Prompto looks over to Gladio and Iris. She's angry. Of course she is.

“Gimme a second, okay?” Prompto squeezes on Noct’s arm. “I just want to tell Cindy we’ll be off.”

“Yeah,” Noct nods, “of course.”

Prompto heads back to the garage, hands stuffed in his pockets. He draws one out, checking the time on his phone. He's pretty sure Cindy isn't quite in bed yet. She's the only person Prompto’s got worth saying anything to. The closest thing to family he's had over these ten years. Maybe ever.

He finds her still in the garage, grease on her hands and over the front of her shirt. Workaholic, like always. Other than goodbye, he doesn't know what else to say. So he settles on just that.

Cindy sighs, “You always were dramatic.” She pulls him close, smearing her dirty hands over the back of his jacket. Prompto can't help but laugh. “You come back in once piece. Alright.”

“Cindy,” he shakes his head, “we both know, I'm not coming back.”

She's silent for a long moment, pressing her nose into Prompto’s shoulder, “You didn't have to go and make me cry, you know?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles in return.

“Well,” she straightens up, fiddling with Prompto’s collar. “Time for you to face your destiny, I suppose.”

“Not my destiny,” Prompto corrects.

She smiles.

\--

They settle down for the night on the hill overlooking Insomnia. Where a decade ago, they watched the city burn. A smoldering wound that never healed, Insomnia is still a beautiful laceration. 

Since the Oracle’s death, the Havens’ protection has dried up. So, it doesn't matter where they make camp.

Prompto goes about turning on the lamps, while Noctis helps Gladio with the tent. Erecting a perimeter of light around their campsite, Prompto is careful not to leave any gaps. As long as they stay quiet, the daemons are likely to seek their meals elsewhere.

Ignis cooks. Out of habit, Prompto starts to pull dishes and silverware. When he feels the weight of the four forks in his hand, he realizes, this is it. They're going through the motions of the men they once were. Play-acting lives they left long ago. Just one more night.

One of their bags has their Crownsguard uniforms, still neatly folded. The same ones they were supposed to wear to the wedding. They've decided to don them for this, instead. 

Prompto almost chokes on his peas.

Once they finish eating, quiet settles in. Gladio leans back in his chair. Prompto leans forward, clasping his hands together. His fingers worry at the clasp on the band around his wrist. He's already decided that he won't wear it into battle.

Noctis stares into the flames, the red catching in his eyes. It's different, though, than when they shift with magic, “The four of us, around the campfire...how long has it been?”

They all know how long. Down to the minute.

That's not what this is about.

The flames crackle in the silences Noct leaves, heavy and vast.

“Hmm,” Ignis speaks first, “an eternity.”

Prompto balls his hands into fists, the leather of his gloves making his hands sweaty. He hates this. He hates pretending. Not an eternity. Ten years. It's been ten years, two days, and sixteen minutes.

Noctis continues, “So, yeah.”

Tipping his head back, Prompto stares up in the sky. With the fire still burning bright, he can almost pretend that the ashes floating upwards in the swirling air are stars. Behind him is the city, still awash in artificial light. No one has ever figured out how Ardyn manages it. How he keeps Insomnia always awake.

“I...um…”

Prompto knows Noct’s mannerisms well enough that he doesn't have to look at his face to watch how he opens and closes his mouth, trying to make the words come. The only difference now is the lines around his eyes. 

Leaning forward, Prompto buries his face in his hands. It's not enough to blot out the light of the fire, still red in his vision. This isn't something he wants to hear. But it's unavoidable. 

Gladio pushes, “Out with it.”

Prompto turns to look at Noctis, because if he looks at Gladio, he’ll say something he regrets. Noct’s eyes are turned towards his feet, hair cascading across his face. 

He's still the most beautiful person Prompto has ever seen. Prompto has never thought otherwise, since that first day of school. Even when they were young, and Prompto didn't understand, why his heart would race, when Noctis touched his hair.

“I just,” Noctis turns his head, eyes unfocused, flicking between the three of them. “...Why is this so fucking hard.” Curling and uncurling his fingers against his thighs, Noctis finally settles on weaving them together. He looks out to Insomnia, back at the ground, twitching, worrying. Prompto feels much the same, biting down on his bottom lip. He hates this. He hates this so fucking much. “So I...I've made my peace.”

Liar, fucking liar.

Prompto fights the urge to jump out of his chair, to throw it across the chasm of the river, watch it break up across the rocks, in the water. He wants to scream into the night, because there's nothing but the darkness left. That and the taunt of the Crown City.

That city was his salvation, sheltering him for years. This isn't his destiny. Prompto was built for lesser things.

Empty.

But here they are. Here he is, at the side of the True King. Knowing what his hands feel like against Prompto’s skin.

Noct’s eyes are filled with tears, fatter, heavier than he can hold back. “But seeing you here now, it's more than I can take.” 

“Yeah,” Prompto chokes, because he has to say something, “you're fucking right it is.” 

He tries not to watch, as tears streak down Noct's face. It takes time for him to realize his own cheeks are wet as well.

Gladio smiles, “You spit it out.” He has the nerve to be smug about it.

\--

They don't bother to break down camp. There's nothing that they need, leaving the folding chairs in a circle around the firepit.

Changing in silence, Prompto pulls on his sleeveless shirt, running his fingers down to smooth out the fabric. Intricate lines of gray and black weave across the surface. He sort of can't believe it still fits.

Before pulling on the long, black jacket, he looks at the cuff around his wrist. Tugging at the buckle, he pulls out the leather strap, tossing it into the dirt. He turns his hand so he can see the barcode clearly. It's just as black and neat as it's always been. Through the years, it's never faded. When he runs his fingers over it, the lines are slightly raised.

Noctis emerges from the tent, his shirt cuffs perfectly folded over, but he's left the collar open at his neck. The black of his attire makes him look sickly pale. The red of his eyes, too.

“Prompto,” he say fondly, wrapping their hands together, “scared?”

Prompto feels the scrape of Noct’s ring against his own, bare finger.

There's no reason to lie, “Terrified,” he smiles, “but let's do this.”

Noctis brushes his thumb over the barcode. The day Noct found out what, who, Prompto was, he kissed over the lines, before kissing Prompto’s mouth. “Let's get out of here.”

The four of them make their way towards the gates of the city, the latch long broken, but locked by daemons, the threat of consumption and death. Standing guard, just on the other side of the metal gate, stand a dozen magitek troopers, their gnarled, haunted faced hidden under steel helmets. They move with inhuman precision, like jointed dolls knotted together.

Their number isn't so imposing, but Prompto’s stomach acid churns all the same. It's been a long time since he's fought MTs. There aren't very many left. But there have been rumors that Ardyn hoards them for his personal guard. A little army of magicked men who never age, never eat, never sleep. The very height of technology, of progress.

Prompto stares down what was meant to be his destiny, and chooses another path.

“Ready?” Noctis asks, summoning forth his sword.

Prompto reaches into the Well, connecting with Noctis through the force of his magic. Finding his pistol, Prompto draws, “Ready.” And as soon as it’s in his hand, he fires, scattering bullets against metal shells.

Noctis warps away, phasing onto a streetlight up above. He only hangs for a moment, before crashing down into the MTs, starting to gather together in pursuit of Prompto’s shots.

Prompto doesn't fear them reaching him, though one of the snipers catches him in the shoulder with a lucky shot, before Noctis can dash forward, slitting his throat with his blade. Ignis and Gladio rush forward, ready to cut through what remains of the front line, felling cursed soldiers as swiftly as they can manage. Now is not the time to question their abilities.

Scrambling atop a burnt out car, Prompto gets into position to pick off stragglers, firing at the MTs who have broken formation. Noctis warps again, smoothly moving through Prompto’s line of fire, the ephemerality of the phase keeping him from being hit by Prompto’s bullets. 

Once the MTs are down, Noctis marches ahead. 

Crashing steps against the pavement signal the daemon up ahead is massive. Prompto is pretty sure it's a deathclaw, with six limbs and a swollen thorax, ready to burst. Prompto hates bugs. He hates giant, daemon bugs even more.

\--

The subway is awash in light, every bulb meticulously in place and lit. Prompto sits with his back against the tile wall, legs spread out in front of him. He jokes, “Ardyn must have a hell of a maintenance crew. I swear, I've never seen the subway this clean.” He taps his toes together.

They're taking the time to regroup, before heading back up to the surface. Almost to the palace now. Almost to Ardyn.

Prompto doesn't like thinking about what happened in the Keep. Even less, he likes thinking about Ardyn pretending to be him, the magic it took to swap their bodies in Noctis’ mind. He's still not sure how Ardyn managed that, other than his name is also Lucis.

And the Lucii have powers the rest of the world can only dream about.

Noctis wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, an open water bottle at his side. They can't wait here for long. They can't afford to get tired.

Gladio pops two tabs into his mouth, before slugging down a full bottle of water. Muscle stimulants, most likely, to keep his strength up. They're not without side effects, Prompto knows from experience. At least, for him, they weren't worth the fever symptoms they induced, lingering long after the battle was over. Gladio, though, is made of tougher stuff than him.

“Ready to continue?” Ignis offers his hand to Noctis.

“Yeah.”

There's something so beautifully hopeful about the fact Noctis takes the time to throw his water bottle in the trash can on their way up the stairs.

\--

Bahamut is like nothing Prompto could have ever imagined. Really, truly. As the Draconian descends, Prompto thinks that this must be a dream. The scale of his form is beyond that Prompto can easily comprehend. For as many gods as they've faced together, seeing Bahamut still induces awe, his metal wings spanning the facade of the palace from end to end.

He dwarfs Ifrit, who make Shiva, Gentiana, look so small and fragile in comparison, as she enters the battlefield, a beautiful shadow. She twirls away in a flurry of frost and gentle ice. Prompto never knew the cold could be so kind. But it's fitting, for her. She's always loved mankind, even when the other gods could only conjure disdain.

Bahamut, for all his might, yields to her, allowing the goddess her final blow against Ifrit, already howling in uncontained rage. He is the single god who would not yield to Noctis, the True King, meant to usurp the gods, when the fabled hour comes.

Prompto’s skin still feels hot, ash clinging to the fine, blond hairs on his arms. His jacket is a lost cause, nothing more than a charred husk he shed at some point deep in battle.

He watches as Ifrit shrieks, as a god dies, because he failed to fall in line to Noctis, who only a short time ago, was just a man.

Defeating Ifrit is not the end. Ardyn still awaits. Once Shiva departs, Noctis clenches his hand over his chest. Prompto lets his pistol fade out. Every time he goes to draw, the weapons are slower to appear. They're not as heavy now. Noct’s reserves are running out. His Well running dry.

“The palace,” Noctis coughs, “we have to continue on.”

The pavement under their feet is cracked, still run through with fire, though Ifrit has vanished. The gods do not truly die. But, at least now, Ifrit knows he has been bested. He will not stand in Noctis’ way again, despite his contempt for humanity. 

Really, Prompto isn't sure Ifrit hates humans, or it is only Shiva who causes him strife. Humans, they're just pawns, caught in the middle of a war between gods.

The palace looms before them, drab, despite the light. So different than Prompto remembers, though he's been inside only once.

The marble floors and glit fixtures still shine bright, once they are inside. In the distance, the elevator dings, waiting to take them to Ardyn. He's waiting for Noctis. He's been waiting a very long time for this moment.

In the elevator, Gladio positions himself closest to the door, ready to defend his king if necessary. Ignis leans against one corner of the elevator, utterly at ease within the palace walls. Those two have always known their place here. Prompto is the one who doesn't belong.

But as the floors tick by, Noctis takes his hand again. His voice is quiet, soft, even though the others are sure to hear. “I had this silly idea, when we were in high school,” Noctis rasps, “that when I was King, we’d come back here together.”

Prompto can't help but laugh, “Ignis didn't even like me staying in your apartment.”

Hissing through his clenched teeth, Ignis still doesn't correct Prompto. It's true, that Prompto was never considered a good influence, too coarse and common, neglecting his studies, and without any family history anyone could trace.

“Wouldn't matter then. I wasn't even thinking about, well, you know,” he squeezes their hands together again, “I just knew I wanted you close. With me, always.”

“Me too,” Prompto sighs. “I didn't want to think about...when we’d have to part.”

“I never thought it would be like this,” Noct admits.

The elevator door opens, Gladio taking the lead. When he determines the floor to be empty, he signals for the others to follow.

Their boots click against the marble, heading towards the throne room. It is the hour of Noct’s ascension. The day they all knew would come.

They stop outside the door, Noctis’ hand already on the handle, before hesitating, turning back around. “Prompto, let me see your pictures.”

“Oh…” he has his camera, yeah.

“I just want one, to take with me,” Noctis explains.

“Take whichever you like.”

Prompto turns on his camera, navigating to the right folder. He and Noctis flip through the photos together, Gladio hanging over their shoulders while Ignis waits for Noctis to decide.

Prompto has saved a lot of them from ten years ago. The only thing he really photographs anymore are tactical sites that the hunters are scouting for planned attacks. He's taken a few photos of Cindy over the years, a handful of himself. But most of them are from before the darkness. Since Noct has gone, there hasn't been much worth photographing.

Noct settles. It's one of Prompto’s favorites. The four of them out by the Vesperpool. He took the photograph early in the morning. Prompto and Noct were barely awake. Gladio was busy breaking down camp so they could get moving. But the light had been so beautiful over the water, that Prompto shucked away his tiredness to set up the tripod.

Him and Noct share a blanket, still pulled over their shoulders to keep out the morning chill. Both of them with their hair unbrushed. Ignis has his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his glasses perched on the top of his head. Gladio smiles, one of the folding chairs collapsed at his feet, his hand on Noct’s shoulder. They only had a moment to get the photo, before they returned to blurry activity.

“This one,” Noct says.

The others agree.

Ahead of them throne room lies in ruin, cracked walls, opening to the sky, debris littering the floor. Four empty, steel-link chains hang from the ceiling, swaying gently though there is no breeze. Prompto keeps his eyes fixed on them, unable to look away. Something is wrong. Noctis turns away, scowling. He can see something the others cannot.

Ardyn’s face is a mess of pale skin and black bile, flesh curling away from cursed bones. His outfit, oddly eccentric ten years ago, seems fitting now, making him look larger than he really is. He sits upon Noctis’ throne, the Crystal mounted defiantly above his head. The chains sway again and Ardyn smirks.

“I'm afraid you're out of luck,” his hands wrap around the armrests of the throne. “The throne brings you here, but it seats only one.”

“The throne is meant for the king, it is mine,” Noct threatens, his arm extending to draw his blade.

Ardyn stands, his smile never leaving his lips. Prompto knows his face so well, from the hours they spent together, before Ardyn grew tired of tormenting him in the Keep. While Prompto does not doubt Ardyn’s cruelty is bottomless, his patience is not.

“Oh Noct, how long I have waited for this. Longer than you could ever know.” Ardyn raises his hand. “Tonight, the dreams of the blood royal come to an end.”

Prompto feels it pulling deep inside him, a foreign magic, at once familiar and sour. It tastes like cheap vinegar on his tongue. It is Ardyn, trying to draw from him, as Prompto and the others draw from Noct. It is the same magic, but in reverse, pulling something out of their mortal bodies. 

In a fit of panic, Prompto shoves his fingers down his throat, trying to force out Ardyn. He doesn't stop to think how futile his action is. But Gladio and Ignis must feel it too, their eyes widening in shock as Prompto coughs, spitting up onto the floor. It's too late though. Ardyn flicks his wrist, bolts of magic shooting towards them, finishing what the subtle drain began.

And then, the darkness.

It should be expected, by now.

\--

“Noct?” Prompto groans, his voice raspy from the vomiting. Stupid idea. But it would have been great, if it worked.

Noctis sits on the floor, blood streaked down his neck, wetting his shirt. Prompto brushes his fingers against the fabric, his hand coming away streaked red. “The others?”

“Should be awake soon enough. Ardyn is...only the ascension remains now.”

Prompto wants to say something stupid. Like, that now that Ardyn is dead, Noct doesn't have to fulfil the prophesy. But he knows that's not how this works. The Starscourge doesn't end until Noctis takes his ordained place. The daemons continue, and so does the darkness. His sacrifice is the only way this ends.

“I don't want you to watch,” Noctis runs his hand over Prompto’s shoulder, tapping his fingers against his arm.

“I...don't think I can,” Prompto admits.

Behind them, Ignis groans, rubbing at his forehead and sitting up, “Ardyn?”

“Gone,” Noctis is curt, “we should...head back downstairs. Say our…”

“There you are, hesitating again,” Gladio coughs.

They ride the elevator back down in silence. Prompto knows Noctis is only wasting time. Nothing stands between him and the end now. Nothing but the continual beat of seconds passing.

Only when they stand in the plaza of the palace, rainfall stinging them in a steady tide, does Ignis break the silence. “So, this is farewell.”

Prompto can't understand how any of them can be so composed in this moment. Then again, his eyes are dry.

“Yeah, um, farewell,” Noctis steps towards Ignis first, hugging him solidly, before moving on to Gladio. “I leave it to you…”

Prompto balls his hands into fists, trying to keep himself from lashing out. Instead, he can only be resigned. He can hear them already, the daemons rising in the city. Once Noctis resolves to take the throne, the daemons will make their final push. It is up to the three of them to hold them back. To make sure Noctis succeeds.

When Noct stands in front of Prompto, they make sure their lips meet, however achingly fleeting their goodbye must now be. He slides his hands through Noct’s hair, running through like sand. After ten years, they've had these days together. These days are more than Prompto could have ever dreamed. 

Because he was born with the intention of remaining empty. And instead, he has had a life filled with Noctis’ love.

As they draw away, Prompto locks his hands around a Noctis’ wrists, “I believe in you,” and then, with the teasing tone Prompto could never leave behind, “Your Highness.”

Without warning, Noctis kisses him again. Prompto will blame the wetness on their cheeks on the rain. It's only a trickle now, and not a downpour. But it's enough to take responsibility.

When Noctis ascends the stairs, his attendants drawn their weapons. The daemons know the time has come. It is Prompto’s duty to take the first shot, scattering lead into the imps, before redirecting his fire into the giant rising through the concrete.

Without Noctis at their side, the three of them solider forward, holding back the monsters that would chase after their King, hoping to end the rite that has been millennia in arriving.

As long as Prompto holds his gun, he knows he and Noctis are connected, the magic of the Well binding their souls together.

Gladio sweeps through the imps on his way to the giant. Already on the beast’s shoulder, Ignis drives his polearm deep, before switching to his shorter daggers, trying to slice through a vital artery at the giant’s neck. Quickest way to take the fucker down.

Before the giant even falls, a naga raises to take its place, then a second, bubbling up through dark ooze. In shock, Prompto hesitates, a new pack of imps tackling him from behind. Twisting his body around, he unloads into as many as he can. When the shots connect, the terrible little things start to scramble. But there will be more.

They have to fight. He has to fight, even as he feels blood seeping from his abdomen, where one of the imps caught him across his chest.

He can hear the others, Gladio trying to clear as many of the smaller terrors as he can, while Ignis stays focused on one of the nagas. But there are too many. Too many.

Prompto scrambles to his feet, the imps waning for now. He redirects his fire towards the naga, jumping out of the way when she spews forward poison slime.

He holds his gun steady, pulling down on the trigger, but his finger phases through, the gun dimming blue, then gone.

The Well.

Noctis.

There’s nothing more to be done.

The next day, there will be light across Eos.

They've won.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


End file.
